What Hurts The Most
by HeirToTheShadows
Summary: "Whenever someone asked him if he was okay, he always smiled and lied, said yes. It had been just over a year since The Fall, so he should be fine, right? He should have moved on, right? He shouldn't know that it had been three hundred, seventy-seven days, should he?"


**A/N- Well, I guess I'll just jump straight into the fandom with some angsty Johnlock. (Oh god, what am I doing…) I watched the both series' recently, and decided to write a fanfic as a coping method for 'The Reichenbach Fall'. So here we are.**

**This song is based on/inspired by 'What Hurts The Most' by Rascal Flatts. It's just… really perfect for this.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy the fic, and I plan to write more Johnlock in the future. Hopefully with less angst. ;)**

**Disclaimer- I don't own Sherlock, Benedict Cumberbatch, or Martin Freeman. But if I could pick one, it would definitely be Benedict. **

John sat in the chair he had always sat in, drinking the tea he had always drunk. Just one glance, and anyone would think nothing was different. But John knew.

Even if rain was pounding on the roof, even if thunder clapped with shocking force... the flat was too quiet. All the noises Sherlock had always made - all of his constant talking, all of the noise his experiments made, even just his quiet breathing - were gone. Just like Sherlock himself.

After The Fall, John had left the flat, with its deafening silence. He'd thought that if he left the flat - the one place where he'd always known Sherlock would be - maybe Sherlock being gone wouldn't hurt as much.

But it had just hurt more. Each morning that John had woken up somewhere other then the flat... it was like admitting that Sherlock wasn't coming back. And even though everyone said that all the tests said it was definitely Sherlock's body, even though John himself had seen Sherlock's grave, even though John had watched as the coffin was lowered... Sherlock had always been a miracle worker. One more wasn't unreasonable, right?

Even though John had always hated thunderstorms before The Fall, he liked them now. Sherlock had always liked them, and he would go stand quietly by the window, just watching and listening. It had always been the one time Sherlock was quiet. So now... it was the closest to normal he could get.

John missed him. He missed Sherlock more then he'd ever missed anyone before. He'd cried a lot the first few weeks, but now it was like he had used up all of the tears he had been given. He couldn't cry anymore. He would say he was numb, but it hurt too much for that.

Every once in a while, though, he would just start crying. Just one tear, at first, then a second, and a third. And each progressive tear would come faster and faster, until he was sobbing these giant half gasp, half screams of anguish. When that happened, he would cry, and scream, and fight for hours. He would yell at Sherlock for jumping and leaving him all alone in their empty, empty flat. He would yell until he passed out, and when he woke up, he would always be tucked into Sherlock's bed, wearing one of Sherlock's scarves, with a warm spot the size and shape of Sherlock behind him.

Whenever someone asked him if he was okay, he always smiled and said yes. It had been just over a year since The Fall, so he should be fine, right? He should have moved on, right? He shouldn't know that it had been three hundred, seventy-seven days, should he?

But he did.

It hurt so badly, even a year later.

Everywhere John went, he was filled with memories of Sherlock. He'd been all over London with Sherlock, so it made sense that he would be reminded of him. But it didn't make sense that he couldn't move on and see anything in its own right. All he saw were the memories of Sherlock, and all John felt was the pain of losing him.

Whenever John ran into someone that had known Sherlock as well, he was forced to smile and act like he was okay, even though he wasn't. The only people that understood - sort of - were Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. Mycroft paid Sherlock's half of the rent, these days, because he understood that John couldn't pay it by himself, and he felt guilty about The Fall. John had wanted to refuse when Mycroft had offered, but he couldn't stand to lose the flat, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't lower the rent until someone moved into 221C, the basement apartment.

Mycroft told him that in return, John had to try to go out, have fun. He had to try to move on. But John couldn't. Because it was impossible to move on without accepting Sherlock's death. And accepting Sherlock's death meant admitting he wasn't coming back. But if Sherlock wasn't coming back, what was left?

But so that Mycroft would continue to help him live here, he was forced to get up in the morning instead of lying in bed all day. He was forced to get dressed, and _live_, even if he didn't want to.

There were so many things John wished he had told Sherlock, do many things he wished he had done, so many things he wished he had said, so many things he wished he Hadn't said. But if giving up those desires had meant Sherlock would come back, he would give them up in a heartbeat. And if he had been given a chance to go back to before The Fall, he would have. He would go back and apologize for the things he wished he hadn't said, say the things he didn't say, do the things that he hadn't done.

So many things hurt him. But what hurt the most was the chance - just the slimmest possibility, but still a chance - that Sherlock wouldn't have lied to him and jumped if John had just told him the truth.

For months before The Fall, his feelings for Sherlock had been changing. He had been confused, because he had never had this happen to him. And every time someone had assumed they were a couple, it had given him an irrational sense of frightened anger. John understood why, of course, now that it was too late. He'd been frightened because he hadn't been ready to face the fact that he was in love with his best friend. And he'd been angry because _what if Sherlock figured out how he felt? _He'd been so close to telling Sherlock how he felt - so close to being ready - when Sherlock had lied to him and jumped.

Every moment was an eternity to John. He was waiting, had been waiting for so long. And even though he had been waiting for over a year, John still had hope that Sherlock would walk through the door, back into both the flat and John's life, with his chatter and his noise and his mess. And John would slap him, and then kiss him. And when he pulled away...

"I love you," John whispered aloud for the very first time, "I love you so much, Sherlock."

And the first tear fell. Then a second, and a third. And each progressive tear came faster and faster, until he was sobbing giant half gasp, half screams of anguish.

"Come back, Sherlock!" John shrieked in a raspy voice full of pain - both emotional and physical, "Just come back. I need you, with you're stupid talking, and not noticing if I'm gone. Come Back!"

John collapsed to his knees on the floor, his face buried in his hands, sobbing. Eventually, he fell into a light, fever-like sleep.

"Stupid John. Stop crying yourself to sleep over me," he heard his favorite voice say in his sleep. He felt warm hands shift him, picking him up and carrying him to Sherlock's room.

He was set gently on the bed, a warm scarf was wrapped around his neck carefully, and he was slowly lowered onto his side. The warm body that had been doing all of these things then stopped touching him and he felt it seconds later getting into bed beside him. John felt his body get pulled backwards, until it hit a long, warm torso.

"Although," the deep voice said, "I do appreciate the sentiment."

He felt his sleep slowly get deeper and deeper, nearing unconsciousness.

"And, just so you know," he heard Sherlock whisper as he passed out, feeling Sherlock's warm lips brush lightly against his neck, "I love you, too, Idiot."


End file.
